Sand Storm
by elektralyte
Summary: A human, a Namekian, two mutants and a hobbit meet in a bar…I know, I know, very weird crossover.
1. Chapter 1

Sand Storm

By Elektra

Ratings: T for drinking

Disclaimer: I write only for fun not profit. The characters Yamcha and Piccolo belong to Funimation, Ororo and Betsy belong to Marvel, and Frodo belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.

Summary: A human, a Namekian, two mutants and a hobbit meet are in a bar…I know, I know, very weird crossover.

Chapter 1

"Waitress! Another round for me and my friend," the handsome scar-faced man requested. A buxom blonde beauty in what looked like a St. Paulie girl's outfit sauntered by with tray in hand.

"Saki for you and water for your friend?" she asked in a vague English accent.

"Yeah, that'll work sweetheart."

"Lorna."

"Lorna, it is. I'm Yamcha and this is my friend, Piccolo."

"I'll be right back with those drinks, Yamcha." She gave him a wink, and headed for the bar.

"Do you think we'll be leaving soon?" Growled his rather large, green-skinned companion.

An unattractive demon wench in a too short skirt that revealed pasty liver-spotted legs was harassing the Namek. He managed to shoo her away and shuddered as the bald, horned creature tottered off on spiky heels.

"Your loss," she croaked, swinging her scraggly spade tipped tail in rejection. "Demon King my arse . . ."

"Bwah-ha-ha-ha!" Yamcha clutched at his belly.

"Shut up, fool!"

Yamcha wiped a tear from his eye. "You sure do have a way with the ladies. So how do I get some of that action, 'Demon King'?"

Piccolo responded with a growl and a raised fist. Fortunately for the desert bandit, the ample blonde returned with the drinks. Yamcha paid her and gave her a generous tip. Lorna the waitress looked pleased and Yamcha decided he might stand a chance with her.

"I wouldn't get too friendly. Once this storm lets up we need to leave this place or else be trapped here, indefinitely." Piccolo warned.

"I wouldn't mind being trapped with her," he replied, tilting his head in the waitress' direction.

"Many of these patrons had the same thought." They both surveyed the motley group gathered in the tavern. Yamcha spied Lorna giving another patron a glimpse of her cleavage and realized his namekian friend was right.

With a sigh he had to agree. "You're right man. We gotta leave the first chance we get."

"That may not be as easy as you think," a child sized man with rather large eyes and pointed ears interrupted. Both Piccolo and Yamcha eyed him wearily.

"What do you mean?" Piccolo demanded. The little man shifted uncomfortable under the dark green gaze.

"Well, it's just that I tried to leave when the storm let up once and, well . . .I didn't end up from where or when I came."

This time Yamcha piped in. "You mean, you ended up in a different dimension?"

"I don't know what a dimension is, but if it is some level of hell then that's where I was!"

As impossible as it seemed, his eyes widened even larger as he explained, "there were so many people! And metal boxes that moved around like horse-less carriages. They spat out noxious fumes like angry dragons and bellowed loudly like monstrous geese! Lights flashed everywhere making my head spin. It was horrible I tell you!" His eyes began to water as his body started to shake.

"Hey, don't . . .it's okay. Do you want a drink? Why don't you join us," Yamcha offered.

"Are . . .are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose," he replied politely but longingly. The small man was beginning to calm down.

"No problem. I'm Yamcha, and this is Piccolo."

"Pleased to meet you," he answered with a small bow. "My name is Frodo Baggins. Do you mind if I retrieve my things from my table?"

"Go ahead, we'll still be here. What were you drinking?"

"Tea, and thanks." Frodo wandered off.

"Huh. What's his deal? Did you see how hairy his feet were? Weird!"

"I noticed he only had nine fingers. He carries a dagger, so he may have lost a finger in a fight. He doesn't look like the fighting type though." Piccolo mused.

"Curiouser and curiouser . . ."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. I don't even know why I said that. Look, here he comes."

After setting his things down, Frodo pulled up a seat and smiled at them. "Yamcha, you look like a human to me, but if you don't mind my asking, what manner of man are you Piccolo?"

"I am not a man like you or Yamcha. My people come from a world called Namek that has 3 suns and never sees night."

Frodo's eye widened. He digested this for a moment, the inquired, "You say your people come from this Namek? How did you come to be here?"

"Although my people come from the planet Namek, I was born on the planet Earth and lived there all of my life. As to your next question, I think we arrived in a similar fashion as yourself."

Another barmaid came by to take their orders. This one had silver blonde hair, a lithe figure and a pair of white wings sprouting from her shoulder blades. "My name is Muriel. What may I bring you gentlemen?"

Piccolo had another water, Frodo had tea and Yamcha had yet another bottle of sake. He didn't flirt as much with this barmaid.

At that moment, the door opened and two more people stepped in tavern. Sand rushed in before the two were able to close the door. The taller of the two removed her cloak and revealed cascading white hair and a smooth brown complexion. The other had purple hair, olive skin and Asian features. The women were striking and managed to stand out in a place that served all manners of creatures.

"Dude, I think we just caught a break!"

"What makes you think so?"

"Check them out. They have to be from our time, look at what they're wearing. And they're hot! I'm going to ask them over."

Yamcha made his way to the bar where the two women where talking to the innkeeper. Piccolo rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Frodo. After a few minutes Yamcha and the two women joined them.

"Ororo, Betsy, this is my friend Piccolo and our newly met acquaintance, Frodo Baggins. Guys, this is Ororo Monroe and Elizabeth Braddock."

Piccolo acknowledged them both and Frodo stuck out his hand in a friendly gesture. Yamcha pulled up two chairs for the new arrivals and flagged a barmaid down. Ororo ordered a cup of tea and Betsy ordered a greyhound. Piccolo had to agree with Yamcha that the women were beautiful, especially Ororo. She had the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen.

Ororo and Betsy were sizing the men up too. Betsy thought both men where attractive even though one of them was green. Ororo was particularly interested in the Namek. He was intriguing. They both realized at the same time that Frodo was a man, not a boy. Fortunately, neither had said anything embarrassing.

"So, how is it that you ladies came here with minimal wind damage? I felt as if I were carrying my weight in sand when I arrived," inquired Frodo.

"Hey, yeah. It took at least two baths before I got all of it off. Both of you barely look mussed."

"I have the ability to manipulate natural weather patterns," Ororo replied. "This storm is somewhat . . . supernatural in nature. Still, I had just enough control to create a shield of air against its wind."

She demonstrated her power by forming a tiny thundercloud that rained in her teacup. Both Piccolo and Yamcha sense that much skill was involved in being able to create such a thing.

"A tempest in a tea cup!" exclaimed the half-ling. Both Yamcha and Betsy chuckled at that.

"Since we're all stuck here for the time being why don't we get to know one another?" requested Yamcha. The others agreed and they all told their stories. None of them noticed a pair of eyes a black as a moonless night staring at them from another table.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Sand Storm

By Elektra

Ratings: T for drinking

Disclaimer: I write only for fun not profit. DBZ characters belong to Funimation, all Xmen mentioned belong to Marvel Comics, Frodo and others belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Vertigo characters belong to D.C. Comics.

_A/N: Italics indicate that characters are dreaming._

Summary: Our party meets a being that knows our friends better than they know themselves…

Chapter 2

A few hours later . . .

"Heh. That Wolverine guy reminds me of a certain Saiyan. What do you think Piccolo?"

"I'd like to see a sparring session between him and Vegeta. Are you sure you don't have Saiyans on your world? This Logan seems to fits the description."

"No, Wolvie's a mutant, just like Ororo and me." Betsy explained.

"The planet Namek is fascinating place Piccolo. I can't believe that dragons have the ability and the desire to grant wishes." Frodo commented.

"I find your world just as fascinating," Ororo interjected. "Elves sound enchanting. Can you imagine being immortal?"

"I was invited to live with the elves. I was on my to see them when I ended up here. I wish I could go home . . ." he murmured, a little wistfully.

The others looked on sympathetically.

"I may be able to accommodate your wish Ring-bearer."

All eyes turned to the source of the haunting voice. Frodo saw a tall, pale fellow in an elfin black cloak with black spiky hair. No one had noticed him before until that moment. A hush fell over the tavern and all patrons became still except for their table.

"Who are you?" Piccolo demanded with a low growl.

The stranger smiled a little. His eyes where covered in shadow and mystery. "You do not know me?" Piccolo squinted and saw a large, pale Namek that resembled Guru somewhat. He was swathed in silky black cloth and wore a puffy white collar in the manner of most Namekians.

"I know you Demon King," he continued, interrupting their reveries, "and I see your dreams. You once wanted to destroy your world. In your new dreams you are surrounded by silence and solitude and you are not unhappy."

_Piccolo found himself in a rich green forest surrounding a beautiful crystal clear lake. He drank in the sights and sounds of the most peaceful surrounding he'd ever visited. Then he caught the sounds of footsteps approaching. An older gentleman approached him._

"_Come no further human," Piccolo warned._

"_I mean you know harm. I want to welcome you."_

_Sensing no threat from the old man, Piccolo relaxed. He took another look at the area surrounding him and asked, "What is this place?"_

"_I am Fiddler's Green and this place is me."_

_Piccolo peered closely at the old man again. Thin, wired-framed glasses sat on his round face. The man had a remarkable moustache and a pleasant demeanor. Piccolo decided to believe him._

"_Why am I here?"_

_The old man looked thoughtful for a moment, then answered, "honestly, I don't know. Why do you think you're here?"_

"_I–I think I was sent here. I was sent here by the King of Dreams…"_

"_Well of course! This is the dreaming. The King sent you here then? Good for you! Come, dip your feet in my waters, it's refreshing. Spend some time before you wake. You might like it!"_

_With that, the old man walked away. Piccolo closed his eyes and sighed. _

'_He's right. I should enjoy this. Somehow, I think this will be the last peace I'll know for a while.'_

_Then, he did as the old man told him._

"Goddess," the stranger acknowledged, staring at Ororo with endless black eyes. He was dressed in the robes of a village shaman, clothing that was familiar to her once upon a time.

"What do I dream? I can never remember," she asked breathlessly.

"Close your eyes," he commanded.

_Ororo was tending her garden with loving care. A shadow fell over her and she looked up. It was the Namekian._

_"What are you doing?" He asked politely._

_"I'm taking care of my babies," she stated rather proudly._

_"You call your plants babies?"_

_"They are not just plants silly. I must raise them perfectly or else their fruit will bare dolls instead of real babies."_

_"Really?"_

_"See for yourself if you do not believe me."_

_Piccolo hunched down for a closer look._

_Indeed the plants appeared to have fruit that resembled little plastic dolls. Piccolo found this unnerving._

"_By taking good care of them they will become real children and I will be a mother at last."_

_A breeze suddenly rose up and took the plastic dolls with it. Ororo cried out and vainly tried to control it, but failed. The dolls flew off into the distance and disappeared._

_Ororo was overcome with despair. She covered her face with her hands and wept at the loss of her surrogate children._

"_Don't cry," Piccolo begged. "You can help me raise mine."_

_Piccolo reached into a bag that was tied to his waist. He lovingly opened it up and pulled out an infant. The baby was Piccolo in miniature form. He had a green complexion, bud like antennae, and tiny fangs like his father._

"_Is that your baby? He's beautiful! May I hold him?"_

_Piccolo carefully passed the baby to Ororo and when she had him situated comfortably in her arms he asked, "would you like to live with us? The boy needs a mother and you want a child."_

"_What do you need Piccolo?" She hoped that he needed her too._

_The Namekian looked surprised by the question._

"_I don't know. I think I need, no, I desire peace. And I wish to have… to have…"_

_He reached out to her with one hand. She shifted the baby into the crook of her arm and reached out to him with the other. They clasped hands for a moment and stepped close together._

"_I wish to have a future," he whispered into her hair._

_Ororo smiled and answered, "all right then, I will."_

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

Sand Storm

By Elektra

Ratings: T for drinking, mild violence

Disclaimer: I write only for fun not profit. DBZ characters belong to Funimation, all Xmen mentioned belong to Marvel Comics, Frodo and others belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Vertigo characters belong to D.C. Comics.

_A/N: Italics indicate that characters are dreaming._

Summary: Two more revelations and an uncertain future to go…

Chapter 3

The king of dreams turned his attention to the scarred warrior.

"Desert Bandit," He began. To Yamcha he appeared as a man in a black gi with a white dragon emblem.

"You look for your life to have meaning. To be a part of something bigger than you."

_Yamcha found himself standing in a nondescript government office. It was so much so that every time he looked away from an area, the décor would instantly vanish._

_"Next!" A cranky voice called out._

_Startled, Yamcha approached the windowed counter from where the voice emanated. He pulled out the plain gray metal chair provided for applicants and took a seat. The woman on the other side of the window was busily typing away on a computer while Yamcha twiddled his thumbs. For some strange reason, she refused to acknowledge him._

_When she finally did look at him Yamcha let out a small gasp of recognition. The woman had plain brown hair and pale ordinary features. Her eyes were either brown or gray but he couldn't tell so maybe they were hazel. Her attire was most notable in that it completely lacked any style. She was dressed in a beige rayon blouse and navy blue blazer. Or maybe it was black. It was hard to tell under the fluorescent lighting._

_The weirdest thing about her was how she reminded Yamcha of Bulma. Strike that. She didn't just remind him of Bulma, she was Bulma._

_"Fill this out," She insisted in a voice that resembled Bulma's in no way whatsoever._

_"Okay Bulma," he replied. She didn't seem bothered that he called her that, so he decided that he must be right._

_Yamcha looked down at the incomprehensible form and couldn't decipher a word on it. What's more, he hadn't even a pen with which to write._

_"Um. Excuse me," he asked hesitantly. The woman, now black-haired, stared at him through horn-rimmed glasses that she hadn't been wearing before. "Could I borrow a pen?"_

_Silently she slid a standard issue ballpoint pen towards him through an opening at the bottom of the window. He thanked her and began to fill out the form he couldn't read._

_"What am I filling out anyway?" He queried._

_"You're applying for a position on the 'team'. It's a prestigious position and we only require applicants who can make great contributions. Like him for instance."_

_She pointed across the room towards Krillin, who by the way, surprising looked like Krillin._

_"Oh." Yamcha replied stupidly. He looked down at the form and saw that everything he'd so far written was gone, as in vanished. What's more, so had his pen._

_"Um. Sorry, I just misplaced my pen. Can I have another?" He asked sheepishly._

_"We're all out," she remarked sternly._

_Yamcha felt a moment of despair. Then he reached behind his back and pulled out his sword._

_"Can I write with this?" _

_The woman, who didn't really look like Bulma at all stared at him silently, then shouted, "Next."_

_"Wait a minute!" He begged. "I can contribute! I have a real sword!"_

_He tried scratching the windowpane with it to prove his point, and then realized it was only a dagger. In his embarrassment he hadn't noticed the person behind in him line was now standing next to him. The person rudely shoved Yamcha out of the chair and sat down in it._

_Yamcha blinked in surprise. The man, no creature really, was small and troll-like. He had unkempt hair, a nasty warty nose and was dressed like a homeless derelict. The woman behind the counter smiled at him and exclaimed, "You're just the type we're looking for! Here, have a pen!"_

_The troll pulled his finger out of the nostril he had been picking and casually reached for the offering. His dirty hand "accidentally" caressed the woman as he took the pen._

_Yamcha fought off a wave of disgust and got up. He folded up what was now his pocketknife and tried to stick it in his back pocket. He couldn't because, wouldn't you know, he was only wearing plaid boxers._

_He was at first, completely mortified. Then he saw that no one was paying him any attention except Krillin, who was waving excitedly for Yamcha to join him. Yamcha shrugged and thought, "Why not."_

_He glanced one more time at the counter and saw that the window had been removed. Now the woman who didn't look like Bulma was French kissing the troll. Yamcha dejectedly made his way towards Krillin._

_"Why," he asked his friend sadly, "does she always pick Vegeta?"_

Betsy saw a Goth with spiky hair and a black leather trench coat. "Beautiful assassin. Waiting to become what you once were. Running from what you now are."

_"I could kill you, you know," Betsy stated, as a matter of fact._

_The dark haired man looked at her and asked, "Why don't you?"_

_"Because," she replied petulantly, "I don't look like me. If I were the old me, I could kill you and maybe Warren would love me more."_

_"Really?" The man asked, somewhat skeptically._

_Betsy ignored him because all he did was ask stupid questions. Anyway, she was going to kill him as soon as figured out how to make herself back into the old Betsy, so it was best to ignore him until then. _

_She turned and faced reflection in a nearby mirror. With a small sigh, she rubbed at the tattoo over her eye. She stopped and examined the tips of her fingers for a moment. There was ink there. This time she scrubbed furiously at the mark and it came completely off._

_She stared at her reflection in wonder. The tattoo was gone! There was however, a small piece of skin that was left hanging. She tugged at it and it easily came off. She continued to peel more skin until she removed her entire face. When she looked up she saw her old face._

_Her body trembled with excitement as she tried to peel off the rest of her skin. It would not come off though. She gingerly tested the skin on her arm._

_"Oh!" She exclaimed. "I'm made of plastic!"_

_With her spirits renewed she began hunting for replacement parts in the room. She found a large steamer trunk full of arms and legs and other useful body parts. She sorted through them until she found what she needed._

_Switching body parts wasn't easy. She had to bang her hands against her joints until her limbs were loose enough to be pulled apart. Then, when she snapped the new ones in place, they didn't always fit. It was hard finding parts when you were missing one of your legs._

_At last she had put herself together. One last glance in the mirror told her that everything was in place._

_"I can kill you now!" She looked around but the man was gone._

_With a shriek of anger she took off in search of her missing target. She searched high and low. She searched in all of her friend's houses. No one had seen the man anywhere. Finally, she came to Warren's house but the dark haired man was not there._

_"Warren, I've come to kill that man. Have you seen him?"_

_"What man?"_

_"The one in your dreams of course. Don't you want me to kill him?"_

_Warren gave her a look of disgust. He ruffled his wings with annoyance and remarked, "You can't kill him, you still look like you and not like you at all!"_

_As confusing as that statement was, Betsy understood exactly what he said. She examined herself in a near by mirror and saw that he was right. She looked exactly as she had before the face peel and parts replacement. Anger and resentment filled her and she turned and stabbed her old lover._

_Warren remained unharmed however and remarked, "You can't even kill me. You should just accept who you are and deal with it."_

_He pulled out the knife and dropped it at her feet. Then he left the room._

_Betsy sank to the ground and began to cry._

"You were all once the lords and ladies of your realm, but now you walk alone. You each will have to choose whether to continue your solitary paths or join with others. Choose wisely." Then, turning to the half-ling he commanded "Ring-bearer," as he held out his hand. "I believe a wizard awaits your arrival. Will you join me?"

"What about the others?"

"It's no longer your concern. Come, Olórin awaits your arrival."

Frodo placed his small hand in the stranger's larger one and asked, "Who are you? You never told us you know."

The dark haired man answered. "Some call me Morpheus." And then Frodo's perception shifted a bit so that he was looking at a younger version of the stranger, only with white hair. "Others call me Daniel. You can call me either, it matters not." And as they faded away, he spoke so all could hear. "Either way, I'll see you in your dreams."

Four people suddenly snapped to attention as if they had fallen asleep. "Hey! Where's Frodo?" Yamcha began frantically looking around him.

"He was here a minute ago. Ororo, did you see him leave?"

"I am not sure Betsy. I think," she shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs. "Oh. Never mind." What ever it was that Ororo nearly remembered faded away.

"Shhh. People listen!" Piccolo demanded. Everyone was quiet, even the other patrons. "I think the storm has died down. Now is maybe our only chance!"

"What if it's not the right dimension?"

"Fool! Do you want to spend the rest of your days in dark bar? I'd rather be in the wrong dimension than here."

Yamcha gulped. He knew Piccolo was right. It was just that, well, he was afraid. Then, he looked into the eyes of Betsy and knew what he had to do.

"I don't want to be alone," he said to her.

"I don't either," she answered.

"Then let's do this together!"

He grabbed the beautiful woman's hand and headed out the door into the unknown. Piccolo and Storm followed closely behind them but as soon as they stepped out, the others were gone.

"Where could they have gone?" Ororo asked with a small touch of trepidation.

The normally fearless leader had been on shaky ground for too long. She forced herself not to breakdown as wind began to pick up.

"We don't have much time!" Piccolo shouted above the building winds.

"Piccolo, I am frightened!" She called out.

He turned and faced her. He could see the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. He knew her only briefly yet he could tell that these emotions rarely surfaced on her beautiful face.

He held his hand out to her. "Come with me, there's nothing to fear."

She stared into his deep green eyes and for a moment, a brief sensation of déjà vu washed over her. She hesitated only for a second and grasped his hand tightly. Piccolo gave her hand a small squeeze and led her into the tempestuous mystery.

The sand storm roared to life. It swallowed their shadowy forms rendering them barely visible to the eye. Bit by bit they faded until they vanished into their uncertain, but hopeful future.

End.


End file.
